


like a man on a mission

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: The Other 51 [47]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, CIA Agent Alexander Hamilton, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hamilton Has a License To Kill God Save Us All, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 11:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10436538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: "Marry me," Hamilton said.Whatever Burr had expected to come out of Hamilton's mouth, this hadn't been it.In which Hamilton wants Burr to marry him so that he won't have to testify against him in court. Burr is confused. There is an explosion and guns.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I thought that I'd try my hand at something shorter and fluffier. I don't know if it worked, but oh well.
> 
> In other words, I may have made a grave mistake: I listened to _Les Mis_ , and now it's occupying my thoughts and I can't think and uurghhh

"Marry me," Hamilton said.

Whatever Burr had expected to come out of Hamilton's mouth, this hadn't been it.

He has had a long day behind him, and wanted nothing more than to lay down on the couch and sleep for an eternity and a half. Evidently, Hamilton had other things in mind. The proposal was startling for a number of reasons, chief of which was that Hamilton and Burr were not, in fact, close enough to merit any such thing. They weren't in _any_ kind of a relationship, except perhaps reluctant friendship (courtesy of Hamilton's charming personality) and long-suffering annoyance (also courtesy of Hamilton's personality—both, ironically, caused by the same part of his personality).

When in doubt, Burr fell back on his lifelong motto: _talk less, smile more_.

Evidently, Hamilton didn't require verbal reciprocation, as he went on. "Think about it, Burr! We won't be forced to testify against each other in court. Spousal immunity, and all that."

Burr blinked, his smile breaking for a fraction of a second. "And what, exactly, is it that you are planning to do that you don't want me testifying against you?" he asked slowly, trying to gauge Hamilton's face for the trace of any clues.

Hamilton shrugged neutrally. "I don't have anything specific in mind, but you can never be too certain," he said vaguely. It was strangely out of character for him.

Burr was torn between feeling proud of Hamilton for formulating a plan for the future further ahead than two hours, and agonizing over the fact that Hamilton's future plans that might include criminal activity. He settled on neither.

“No,” Burr said simply. “I will not marry you.”

Hamilton frowned. “I don't see why you shouldn't.”

“And I don't see why I should,” Burr returned evenly.

“I'm a very pleasant person to be around, or so I've been told.”

“I would dearly like to meet those people,” Burr murmured, although the smile was genuine this time. “They have clearly been telling you untruths.”

“Rude,” Hamilton replied. “But really, why not?”

Burr rolled his eyes. “You haven't given me an adequate reason to do so.”

“And you don't do anything unless it profits you,” Hamilton finished with a snort. “I remember.”

“At least I give thought to my actions,” Burr scoffed. “You rush headlong into situations without thinking them through.” Truly, Burr could not have found a person more dissimilar from him had he tried.

“You'd be surprised,” Hamilton turned away, busying himself with brewing another pot of coffee.

Bur had never quite figured out what Hamilton did for a living. For a person who could never limit himself when it came to speaking, his roommate was strangely guarded about his profession. Hamilton traveled a lot, Burr knew that much, but he didn't seem the salesman type—if for no other reason than that he wouldn't give his clients room to think. He had a tendency to bombard people with information, which Burr had discovered less than five minutes into meeting Hamilton for the first time. Sometimes, Hamilton was gone for great stretches of time—other times, it was a week or so. He usually gave Burr the heads up whenever he would be gone, but it has been known to happen that Hamilton would disappear without so much as a word of warning. At first, Burr had worried, but after the fourth time this had happened, he simply catalogued this under Hamilton's Unexplained Antics Making Burr Strangely Curious But Would Ruin Burr's Impenetrable Reputation To Dig Into Them.

As to Hamilton's interest, they were as widely spread as they were numerous. Hamilton had a bit of an obsession with the written word, and once or twice a week, if his work permitted, would publish an essay on an number of subjects. Just last week, he had penned one on the subject of the continued survival of the penguin species if the climate would continue to change as it did. No matter what he did or which pen name he was currently using, Hamilton's writing style was unmistakable.

Hamilton also liked to talk international economy with just about anyone, and had a tendency to at times complain about the fiscal system for hours on end. When that happened, Burr would exile Hamilton into another room until he became interesting again.

“You're an ass,” Burr's roommate mumbled; a resounding crash in the kitchen followed. Hamilton swore as Burr hurried to investigate, only to see Hamilton stand over a bundle of pasta now spread out on the floor, a pan of water waiting obediently on the stove. Burr closed his eyes in exasperation. “God, Hamilton, you are hopeless,” he dragged his fingers across his face. “I sincerely hope that you aren't a cook.”

Hamilton snorted. “I'm not that bad.”

Burr raised an eyebrow pointedly. “Yes, you are clearly a cooking prodigy,” he uttered with not so much a hint of sarcasm as it was with an overabundance of it.

That was when the apartment exploded.

* * *

Later, Burr would only remember snippets from the following moments, but one image seared itself self into his mind: Hamilton's face set in stone, determination mingling with anger, the lights illuminating his expression, giving off the impression of Hamilton being not unlike a dangerous predator. It unsettled Burr in ways he couldn't quite describe.

At some point, Hamilton grabbed his hand. "C'mon, Burr, we need to move. It's not safe here."

But let himself be dragged along, his brain struggling to process the events. He cursed his inability to be of any use—though, judging by the gun Hamilton was casually holding, he had it all well in hand.

Wait, _gun_? Since when did Hamilton own a gun, let alone know how to use one with such practiced ease?

In that moment, Burr became painfully aware of just how little he knew of Hamilton's life leading up to meeting Burr. He rarely some of his past, and positively shut down when the subject of his parents came up. Burr, for his part, had never pushed. Should he have?

"What's going on?" Burr panted, struggling to catch his breath between his steps. He hadn't known that Hamilton worked out; then again, he hadn't known that Hamilton knew how to use a firearm until two minutes ago, so what did he know?

Hamilton, at least, seemed to have an inkling as to what was happening. He didn't look at Burr as he spoke, "Not now, Burr. Save your questions for later."

"Will you at least"—Burr tried to jerk away his hand—"let go of my hand?"

Hamilton looked down at their hands, still interlinked. He flushed, letting go of Burr's hand as though burned. "Sorry," he mumbled. He scanned the busy street—which Burr had no recollection of getting to, nor did he know how the explosion could have gone unnoticed by the passerby—frowning as his eyes zeroed in on one of the shadows across the street. "We need to get to— never mind," he shook his head. "You'll see," he elaborated cryptically.

Burr thought about arguing, about demanding an explanation, because whatever that explosion had meant, Hamilton was surely in the thickest of it, but realized that he would have to regain his breath to do so.

With another glance around, Hamilton took a sharp left, with Burr struggling to keep up. The street they found themselves on was a small one, with a scarce few people wandering around. Suddenly, without warning, Hamilton pushed Burr against a wall just as a shot echoed in the alley. In a move that bespoke years of practice, Hamilton aimed the gun at one of the roofs, firing off two shots in quick succession. Something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he aimed the gun in that direction, firing off another bullet before once again grabbing Burr's hand. “Washington will kill me,” Hamilton muttered. “It's not like it's even my fault this time.”

He had said it quietly enough that Burr wasn't probably meant to overhear; alas, he did. “ _This time_?” Burr repeated. “Are you telling me that this isn't even the first time random strangers shoot at you?”

“I'll explain later,” Hamilton promised again. “We're almost there.” With that, he stopped in front of a wall, staring at it as though trying to remember an old face from decades ago.

“Hamilton?” Burr twitched as the wind suddenly rustled the shadows. “Whatever you're looking for, it isn't here. It's just a _wall._ ”

“Not just,” Hamilton said absentmindedly. He suddenly grinned. “A-ha!” he leaned forward, grabbing something Burr hadn't noticed before sticking out of the wall. A knob, his brain supplied. An invisible door? What kind of crowd was Hamilton entangled with?

Hamilton laughed, suddenly and sharply, and Burr realized that he had said the last part out loud. “I think you'll find out soon enough, Aaron Burr, sir,” Hamilton told him, and why didn't Burr find that reassuring in the least?

The corridor they entered was shrouded in darkness, the only light a few lightbulbs strewn haphazardly along its wall. Burr briefly considered the notion of Hamilton belonging to a mafia, then scoffed at his own imagination—while it was true that Hamilton tended to lean towards the extremes, he also had a healthy respect of the law. Unless that was another façade—in which case, Burr was screwed.

Hamilton guided him down the corridor, then another, then another, until Burr lost count of the amount of turns they had made. If the situation would demand that he find his way back—

Well. _Talk less, smile more_. It always helped, and would work on the mafia as well.

“How much further?” Burr asked. Hamilton ignored him, seemingly too focused on the task at hand, but he might as well just have dismissed Burr as not important enough to converse with. He had a tendency to do that—sometimes, Hamilton would pretend like he was a star and everyone else were planets swirling around him, constantly in his orbit; like only he was bright enough to shine through the darkness and give everyone light. When that happened, he would argue with anyone and everyone, but he wouldn't _talk_ , wouldn't yield his ground; he would simply try to overwhelm his opponent with facts and figures and sheer knowledge.

Hamilton came to a full stop in front of a door. He examined it, then, satisfied, turned the knob.

The room behind the door was a stark contrast to the quiet corridors. It was a grand room, bustling with people scuttling to and fro places unknown, destinations equally so.

As Hamilton briskly made his way through the room, people parted before him, conversations ceasing as everyone turned to stare at the man. It wasn't hard to understand why—Hamilton had a look on his face of a man on a mission, and the scowl on his lips promised pain upon the person who dared to interrupt him. Burr finally caught up with Hamilton. “Where are we—?”

“Wait.” Hamilton seemed to find amusement in that response, having been on the receiving end of it far many more times than either of them could count.

Hamilton found a fancy door and wrenched it open. Inside, a man sat behind a desk, his dark skin in stark contrast with the white suit he was wearing, and Burr found himself wondering whether the man hadn't picked that suit for that very effect; if he was anything like Hamilton, drama was in his blood. The man looked up, as if to reprimand the person invading his office, but his expression softened when he caught sight of Hamilton. “Theta,” the man said in amusement. “We heard about what happened.”

“Whatever it is, it's not my fault, Director,” Hamilton immediately defended himself.

The director chuckled. “That's what you said with the Russians, son. And the Canadians.”

“I'm not your son, sir,” Hamilton replied defiantly. “And the Russians really had no reason to pursue me as they did.”

“Oh?” the director quirked an eyebrow in question. “So you do admit that the Canadians had a valid reason to seek revenge.”

Hamilton shook his head. “I simply did my job, sir.”

“And then just happened to plant a bomb at the Maple Syrup Reserve,” the director deadpanned, “which is the Canadian equivalent of defacing the Statue of Liberty.” The director then turned his eyes to Burr. “Hello,” he said neutrally. “Aaron Burr, defense attorney, I presume.”

Burr's eyes widened, and it was all he could do to keep from gaping. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Hamilton grin gleefully. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” Burr finally replied.

The director stood up, offering his hand. “George Washington, Director of the CIA.”

The CIA. Burr blinked, turning to glance at Hamilton. The fucking _CIA_. Well, at least it wasn't the mafia.

Washington saw the direction of Burr's eyes. He smiled. “I'm surprised that Hamilton hasn't slipped up,” he mentioned mildly, causing Hamilton to huff.

“Sir,” he protested, “I am perfectly capable of keeping a secret. I wouldn't be able to perform my job if I wasn't.”

“No offense meant, Alexander,” Washington assured him. “I am fully aware that you are able to keep the secrecy if need be.”

“You're a CIA agent,” Burr said slowly.

Hamilton snorted. “Not just any agent. I have—“ he cut himself off abruptly, looking to Washington for permission before continuing. “I have a license to kill,” he finished.

Burr blinked. “A license to kill?” he echoed. “I didn't know that it was an actual thing.”

Hamilton shrugged. “Well, it is,” he addressed Washington once again. “What's going to happen now?”

Washington furrowed his brows. “Well, we obviously need to investigate who wants you dead this time before you are allowed to return. A safe house will suit our purposes perfectly, I think. In the meantime,” he went on, “you might consider shopping for a new apartment, since the last one, so to speak, went up in smoke,” only the slightest of twitches at his lips alerted Burr to the fact that Washington had just cracked a joke.

Hamilton frowned. “But sir—“

Washington held up a hand. “If this is about you 'helping' the investigation, I can tell you immediately that it is not going to happen. Stay with Mr Burr, Theta,” the last sentence was phrased as an order.

Hamilton opened his mouth, as if to protest, then closed it again. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, off you go,” Washington waved them off. “I'll have Omicron take you to a safe house.”

Hamilton wrinkled his nose. “Not Jefferson,” he said in distaste. “ _Anyone_ but Jefferson.”

Washington rolled his eyes. “Son, Omicron is a fine agent, and whatever problem you might have with him can surely wait until after this whole mess is sorted out.”

* * *

“So, Hamilton,” Jefferson smirked as he leaned against the doorway of the small break room Hamilton had all but dragged Burr into. Burr hadn't known that the CIA even had break rooms; it certainly explained a lot about Hamilton's caffeine habits. “A little bird told me that you've got yourself in trouble again,” his Southern drawl was more pronounced than usual. “Sometimes it makes me wonder why I ever bother trying to make you look stupid when you manage that just fine all by yourself.”

“Shut it, Jefferson,” Hamilton retorted hotly, glaring up from his coffee. Before he could continue, Burr put a warning hand on his shoulder, grounding him. To his credit, Hamilton didn't shrug it off.

Jefferson smirked. “Listen to your boyfriend, Hamilton,” he said sweetly, and it was all Burr could do to hold Hamilton back from punching Jefferson.

While Burr hasn't actually met Jefferson, he knew _of_ Jefferson—well, he knew of someone at Hamilton's work about whom Hamilton keeps complaining to Burr, and Jefferson matched the profile exactly. Burr privately thought that the lady doth protest too much, but Hamilton's love life wasn't any of his business as long as it didn't affect Burr directly. Besides, the last time Burr tried to poke around Hamilton's business, it ended with their apartment exploding like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

“Anyway,” Jefferson switched the subject, “as much as I'd love to stand here and argue with you, I actually have a job to do. Let's get you to a safe house.”

“Yes, we wouldn't want you to miss date night with Madison,” Hamilton said, his face betraying that even he was surprised at the harshness of his words.

“What's your _problem_ with James?” Jefferson growled.

“I don't have a problem with Madison,” Hamilton insisted.

“No,” Jefferson drawled, “you have a problem with _Sigma_.”

“Did you say safe house?” Burr cut in before the argument could devolve into an actual fistfight—and, as interesting as a brawl would be if involving two trained assassins, Burr had enough new experiences for the day. For the entire _month_ , even.

Jefferson glared at Hamilton even as he replied, “Yes. I'll take you there. Finished your coffee, Hamilton? Oh wait,”—he smiled—“it doesn't matter. Let's go.”

* * *

“Why do you even live with a roommate, Hamilton?” Burr asked, perplexed. They had arrived at the safe house roughly two hours ago, and after the initial fuming and cursing Jefferson's name, Hamilton had settled down next to Burr on the couch. They had sat in silence for a long time, while Hamilton fidgeted with a pen he had mysteriously fished out of one of his pockets. Burr absentmindedly wondered whether it had some secret function—if pressing its button would activate a bomb—then scolded himself for watching too many spy movies. Instead, he had asked a question that had been on his mind ever since he had met Washington and found out what it was Hamilton did for a living. From that, it wasn't hard to extrapolate some extra information, information which confused Burr to no ends. He didn't like being in the dark. “With your salary, you could easily afford an apartment on your own, in Upper Manhattan if you so wanted. Why do you living with a roommate, then?”

Hamilton looked away, his eyes not quite meeting Burr's. He shrugged. “I've found that it's easier. I'm barely at home most of the time, and if I lived alone, the apartment would become so messy since I wouldn't bother cleaning it even when I did come home. As it is, you essentially have an apartment all for yourself most of the time, while I just sometimes crash here, and it's clean since you can't stand the dirty plates or the laundry.”

 _Alexander Hamilton_ , Burr thought with amusement, _deadly spy, professional heartbreaker, and unable to do his own damn laundry._

“Besides, I have company,” Hamilton went on. “When I return to New York, at least I'm not alone,” he straightened his back. “I've got enough of that in my line of work. I didn't want to be alone all the time,” he said quietly, almost despite himself.

“Speaking of living,” Burr began, and noticed that Hamilton's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly, no doubt expecting a rejection of continued co-existence now that Burr was aware of the details of his profession, “we should get a cat. Unless you're allergic?” he added pointedly.

“A cat?” Hamilton echoed.

“A cat,” Burr confirmed. “I feel that I need another creature to feed, to care for, and to clean up after, who will hiss at me as soon as I do or say something they don't like.” A beat. “I want to name her Glove.”

Hamilton tilted his head, contemplating this. He grinned. “What the hell, why not. Let's do it.”

“Also,” Burr hesitated, “yes.”

“Yes?” Hamilton blinked, puzzled.

Burr stifled a smile. Hamilton had this tendency of looking like a puppy whenever confused. He briefly wondered whether it was a skill taught at the CIA, then dismissed the idea; if so, Jefferson didn't seem to have mastered it. “Yes, I will marry you.”

Hamilton made a sound of understanding. “I see. You've realized why it would be… awkward,” he said, “if you had been forced to testify against me in court.”

“I wouldn't _assassinate_ you,” Hamilton snickered, “if that's what you're worried about. It would be just—weird,” he paused, “for the both of us, if you testified against me.”

“Oh,” Burr snorted, “so you've been trying to save us the indignity.”

Hamilton grinned. “Exactly,” he nodded.

A ping from Hamilton's phone diverted Hamilton's attention away from the conversation. He took out his phone, squinting at the screen. “It was the Swedes,” he scowled.

“What did you do to piss off the _Swedes_?” Burr asked perplexed. “They're the Canadians of Europe.”

Hamilton winced. “There was this accident with their Crown Princess and a flame extinguisher and a pair of—“

Burr held up a hand. “On second thoughts, I don't want to know,” he cut him off, then looked at Hamilton's phone. “Aren't you supposed to shut off your phones in safe houses?” he added. “So that they can't trace it, etc.?”

Hamilton grinned. “Washington will probably disembowel me for sharing this,” _So much for 'being good at keeping secrets',_ Burr thought, “but our tech division has recently invented a way for certain devices to remain in touch on one specific frequency while blocking any devices not authorized by a code from accessing said frequency and intercepting any messages or calls we might send.”

“A walkie-talkie,” Burr deadpanned. “You've basically invented a _walkie-talkie_.”

Hamilton made a face. “It's a bit more complicated than that, but sure,” he allowed, "a walkie-talkie. Anyway, they've caught the group responsible,” he gave Burr a hesitant look, as if still not certain that Burr would want to stay with him after everything that happened.

Burr stood up, offering a hand to Hamilton, who stared at it the same way one might stare at a wild snake poised to strike. “Come on, Hamilton,” Burr nudged him. “The apartment won't find itself.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Out of character? Fluffy? Not fluffy?


End file.
